


You Are Right At Home

by VJR22_6



Series: teamuncleweek2020 [4]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Gen, teamuncleweek2020, this is SO late but prompt was physical affection!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:49:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27376732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VJR22_6/pseuds/VJR22_6
Summary: Donald deserves love and Scrooge is there throughout the years to make sure he receives it.
Relationships: Dewey Duck & Donald Duck & Huey Duck & Louie Duck, Donald Duck & Scrooge McDuck
Series: teamuncleweek2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985648
Comments: 7
Kudos: 103





	You Are Right At Home

**Author's Note:**

> I have never in my life felt as appreciated as I have with the kudos and comments on this event week. Especially from Donald fans, wow. I was really scared I was doing him wrong but I've had an overwhelming amount of nice feedback, so here's an extra soft Donald piece as my thank-you. The working title was "all the times Donald's depressed ass gets love, number one right here right now" so anyway. Please enjoy.
> 
> If you like it please remember comments are my favorite thing!

“Sorry to leave him with you on such short notice,” Hortense apologizes, which makes it five—or was that six times? Eh, it doesn’t matter. Scrooge doesn’t mind babysitting anymore, at least not if it’s his nephew. Donald’s a sweet kid.

“It’s alright, I promise,” he reassures her. “What’s a few hours with the lad?”

“If you’re _sure_ you’ll be okay,” she hoists Della onto her hip. The toddler babbles softly, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I just need to take her to this appointment and keeping an eye on two kids is harder than it looks.”

“Dinnae ya worry, lass, Donald and I’ll be fine fer the afternoon.”

“Thank you,” she says, and turns toward the door. “So much.”

Scrooge feels a pull on the end of his sleeve, and looks down to see a sad-eyed Donald watching his mother and sister leave. He points with one little hand, and babbles quietly. Then he turns to look up at his uncle.

“Mama,” he says pleadingly. “Dewwa, Mama.”

“I know, lad,” Scrooge picks him up. “They’ll be back soon.”

“No,” he murmurs, grabbing a fistful of Scrooge’s coat. “No-oh-oh.”

“I know,” he pats the kid’s back, and closes the door, earning another distressed wail. He wouldn’t mind it much if it weren’t right next to his ear, but he supposes Donald can’t be blamed.

“Come now, let’s get some lunch. That’ll make ye feel a bit better.”

He trots to the kitchen, turning the teakettle on and beginning a search for something to eat. He pulls the bread out, and then a jar of jelly from the fridge.

“Where’d Duckworth put the blasted peanut butter?” Scrooge asks quietly, standing in the door of the pantry. “Cannae find anything in this house.”

Donald, helpful as a toddler can be, pulls the brim of Scrooge’s tophat down to cover his eyes.

“Aye, lad,” he laughs, pulling the hat off and putting it on Donald’s head instead. “Ye can hold onto that fer me.”

The little one laughs, troubles apparently forgotten, and Scrooge spots the peanut butter at last, hidden in a corner.

“Ah, now,” he sets the jar down beside the rest of the ingredients. Then he moves to put Donald down so he can finish the rest with the use of both hands. The duckling protests with a drawn-out wail of “no,” and clings to his uncle as if they were glued together.

“Aye, lad, I cannae make yer food with one arm. Ye’ve got ta let go.”

“No!” He cries sharply, and the tophat falls over his eyes.

Scrooge shakes his head as the kettle whistles, and resigns himself to making tea and lunch with one hand. He loves Donald dearly, but it’s going to be a long afternoon.

———

“I hate you!”

Donald slams the bedroom door, hard enough his guitar across the room tips over, hitting the floor with a soft thump. He balls his hands into fists, cheeks hot and red and—and—-ugh.

“Stupid Dumbella,” he stomps over to his bed. “Stupid Gladdy. Stupid Fethry. Stupid Mom, for leaving us here with them. Stupid Duckworth for telling us to go outside.”

He punctuates his sentence by flopping into bed, muffling his grumbling by burying his beak in his pillows. His feathers and flannel are wet from the rain, and his whole bed will surely get wet too if he lies here. He just… doesn’t feel like doing anything about that.

His throat hurts from yelling, a dull ache all the way down, and his chest hurts, although that’s less physical and more… something else. He doesn’t know. It’s like he’s missing something that he never even had at all.

His sister sucks. He does know that. She’s mean and stupid and she makes him feel like a firework about to blow all the time! He hates it! He wants to scream! And maybe punch something, while he’s at it!

His cousins aren’t any better. Gladstone with his dumb luck, always getting the good stuff and Donald getting the short end of the stick. Plus, he’s just as much of a bully as Della is. And Fethry, always being the baby and the—well, it’s not Fethry’s fault he’s the favorite. Donald just wishes _he_ was someone’s favorite. Just once.

“Ugh,” he groans, beak squished flat against his pillow. Why does every time he hangs out with his family turn into him feeling all torn-up inside? Like he’s broken, when there’s nothing for him to fix?

Thunder claps outside, and he curls in on himself as the lighting flashes. As the storm begins to pour down outside, the one within his broken little heart does too, and he’s left clutching his pillow and crying. He feels an awful lot like wailing, maybe, if he didn’t think Della’d call him a baby for it.

His shoulders shake, and he chokes on the sobs, his crying turning to a cough. He’s freezing cold but can’t find the strength to move from lying on top of the blankets to being under them.

A knock at the door draws him out of his emotional haze, and golden light spills forth in a sliver as the door opens enough for the visitor to look inside.

“Donald, lad,” his unca’s unique accent whispers into the darkness. “I brought ye some tea.”

“Thanks, Unca,” he manages, and his voice definitely doesn’t waver with the thought that someone cares enough to come help.

The floor groans as he walks in, and there’s a clinking sound, presumably the cup being set down. He sits down on the edge of the bed and Donald half-heartedly turns to look up at him.

“What was all that yelling about, lad?”

“They were makin’ fun of my voice again,” Donald grumbles. “It’s not my fault I don’t sound right.”

“Ye cannae change yer voice. They just need ta learn ta accept ye fer who ye are.”

He reaches out to rub Donald’s back reassuringly, eventually settling his hand on the teen’s shoulder.

“When I was younger, people used ta make fun my accent,” he reveals. “But if ye just remember that yer okay, and that they’re wrong, ye’ll be alright.”

Donald raises an eyebrow, and with a scratchy voice, asks, “did they really?”

“Ah, they did.” Scrooge gestures for him to sit up, and when he does so, the warm teacup is pressed into his hands. “Drink a little, lad, ye sound like yer voice is about ta give out.”

“Thanks.” His first sip is hot, not scalding but nearly so, and gentle on his throat. Scrooge’s hand is still resting on his shoulder, a gentle affection Donald wordlessly soaks in like a sponge. It says for them what they both cannot.

———

The wind whistles through the damaged mansion roof. It’s a mildly windy night, and the damage done in Magica’s desperate scrabble for revenge is severe. The houseboat is at the bottom of the bay, though, so they’re doing the best they can to sleep safely tonight, and tomorrow they’ll work on repairs.

Scrooge put Webby to bed in her room, which is thankfully mostly intact, and he’s still reeling quite a bit from it. He’d all but turned out the light when she sat up quickly, clinging to him tighter than he’d ever thought a hug could be.

“It’s okay. I forgive you, Uncle Scrooge.”

Her whisper is still ringing in his head when Donald sits down beside him, in what used to be the boys’ bedroom. Or what still is? He just knows they put the triplets to bed in his room because he got theirs destroyed dealing with the wicked witch, and he’s still trying to earn his place in their lives again. His plush bed is the least he can offer tonight.

“Nice night,” Donald murmurs. “After we got rid of the shadows, that’s….”

“A sky Della would’ve liked to see,” he finishes. They both go quiet, letting the thought hang between them like a ghost. Hauntingly silent.

She loved the night sky after an adventure. Always said it gave her her second wind to see the stars. But now, looking out at the starry expanse he lost her to, Scrooge feels more tired than he has in all his years.

Donald has his knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them. He’s gazing up as if trying to spot his sister within the glimmering night. As if she’s stuck in the silence between the stardust, and he can take her hand and pull her to safety again like he did once on an adventure, when she slipped from the deck of the boat. Like a true sailor he rescued her from the depths, catching her moonlight-colored feathers and pulling her free of that wine-dark sea.

This time, though, there’s no saving their missing piece.

She’s still with them, Scrooge supposes, in some ways. He sees her now and again, in the way Dewey runs ahead on their adventures. She’s in Louie, and his cunning choices. She’s there when Huey’s curiosity drives him to solve mysteries. She’s in the way Donald sings the kids to sleep when they’re restless. And she’s in Scrooge, too, in the way that thinking of her reminds him to keep going.

He leans his head on Donald’s shoulder. It’s been a long day. Donald, seemingly just as tired, tilts his head to rest it on top of Scrooge’s. They both take a breath then, sighing into the quiet night.

“I missed you, Unca Scrooge.” Donald’s confession is barely audible, but there. It stings the old man’s heart as much as it warms it, and he knows his eternally costly mistakes are forgiven.

“I… I missed ye too, Donald,” he replies, and the two of them stare out into the night. Sitting there among the broken pieces of the day’s adventure, Scrooge knows they’ll get back up again. Together.

———

“You _faked_ your _death_!” Donald squawks. “And you didn’t even think to tell me!”

“Ah, ye cannae get mad at me for that, I was only trying ta give ol’ Flinty a scare.” Scrooge retorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

Donald’s cheeks are red-hot, fists clasped tight as they can go. He’s simmering now, only one poorly chosen sentence and he’ll boil over and leave a mess behind. Or, well, a worse mess, anyway. The window over the stairs is in pieces scattered mostly outside, and there was quite a bit of trash left behind by the funeral attendees inside. They’re standing among it now, and it’s almost fueling Donald’s rage more. The kids shouldn’t have to help clean this up, but they’re walking around doing housekeeping with Mrs. B right now!

However, they’re also kind of helping him keep his cool. He tries his best not to blow up when they can see—he’s usually unsuccessful, but he does try—and he’s _really_ trying now. Especially with Huey, he wants to encourage them to find better outlets than giving into that infamous temper they’ve all got a bit of.

Someone starts sweeping and Donald flexes his fingers, breathing deeply. Someone around here has to be a good example.

“You need to tell me things like that. At least have one of the kids text me.”

“Why, so ye can stop me?”

“No, so I don’t—ugh.” Donald spots Dewey behind his uncle, throwing garbage into a bag but entirely focused on their conversation. Of course the kids would be listening in. He chooses his words carefully.

“I thought you _died_ , Unca.” He looks straight at Scrooge, hoping he doesn’t have to spell out that he’s thinking _it felt just like losing Della_.

Luckily it clicks quick, and the old man’s anger turns apologetic. His beak opens, as if he’s going to say something, but the words get lost in the distance between them. Which, honestly, is way too far for Donald’s comfort, especially considering how long they’ve been in each others’ lives again.

He closes that distance, both the physical and emotional, by quickly pulling Scrooge into a hug. Holding him tight, as if to emphasize the toll today’s temporary loss took on him. The old duck is only taken aback for a brief second before returning the embrace just as fiercely.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Donald whispers, hoping nobody else hears. “And I thought I did today.”

“It’s alright, lad,” Scrooge replies, equally softly. “I won’t leave ye.”

He holds on for as long as he thinks he can get away with, relishing the touch after so long without. When he was smaller this was a frequent occurrence, but now Scrooge’s hugs are usually reserved for the—

Webby giggles with delight as she joins their hug. Her brothers aren’t far behind. Donald picks up Huey, giving Dewey a bit more room when he wraps his arms around both of his uncles. Louie just quietly finds his place beside Scrooge, but smiles like he does when a scheme goes right.

Only these kids would turn patching up their family’s disagreements into an adventure.

Huey leans his head against Donald’s, as if absolutely exhausted, and when their little group hug is over, Donald checks the time. Way past bedtime.

“Alright, you guys. You’ve stayed up more than long enough.”

Dewey and Webby both groan, but Scrooge gestures to the stairs, and herds the kids toward their beds. Donald follows, with Huey in his arms like he’s still a toddler and not an almost-too-big kid. His little hands are clasped on Donald’s opposite shoulder, holding on the whole way up the stairs.

Everything feels alright.


End file.
